I have one month left at the window, where I have procrastinated away the last three years of my life.

From my vantage, there is a hill overlooking a parking lot and a fenced in space for dumpsters. Beyond that, there is a marshy field, the chaotic willow, and a prison for children. Despite the latter, I don’t mind the view on top of my hill.

It is not that I live atop some patioed manner, but rather a basement on a steeper hill still. Yoop, yoop, we yell to alert the trash pandas of our presence when we do brave a garbage run. They are friendly if you bear gifts, unlike the turkeys.

At my window, I have seen the king of all gobblers, his wobbly snood brushing the ground when he walks. Some metaphor, but he certainly seems to be compensating for something. I have seen turkeys fly over three-story complexes and forested glades, however, so my belief in Santa Claus has also renewed.

I used to see the prisoners at the kid jail more, but the past two years it’s been a ghost town. Seemingly empty, but still filled with misery. It’s scary to think they just weren’t going outside, but what’s scary anymore when you’re a kid in jail?

From my spot on the hill, I can see the runways of man’s proudest achievement. The more times you watch an airplane fly, the more impressive it becomes. When you drive alongside a four-engine behemoth that transports tanks and munitions as it hammers the air around it and lifts from the ground. Dozens of tons of metal telling the Earth to eat dirt. Que Idina Menzel.

I watch jets with gold lining and Frontier airlines alike. I see helicopters fly in, and I often think of Kobe. Not in like, a disrespectful way, but in a purely associative one. I see the full spectrum of private jets, though more in the summer. Do those who fly private still have to go through TSA or Customs? I would imagine so, but it feels pretty lackluster for those fortunate enough to explore that privilege.

Returning to the window, the willow has been my constant companion through these musings, though they’ve seen them for longer. It is an old and tall tree whose roots spread widely across the swamp. They are impossible to get to without great hassle, and they thrive in their isolation.

In the spring, they get their leaves quicker than the other trees, as though their peers don’t dare to show their plumage until the willow says. It is not a good or bad tree, but a wise one, cunning and neutral, watching and learning the many cycles of life and death. From its branches to its base, it stands firm, providing shade and biding time.

All this I see from my window, though I leave to a new one soon. Less of a view, but closer to leaf and tree. Might every person have their own trees to personify — their own windows to dream from — we’d have a more loving world indeed.